the day starts, the day ends (time crawls by)
by inlovewiththeideaoflove
Summary: He's no reason to believe now isn't the time, because it's over, isn't it, Henry's home and he's safe and danger isn't imminent so everything can finally begin, can't it? She swallows, looks away, pushing away memories of pretty words and blue eyes that weren't real. Neverland AU. Incubus!Hook.


**A/N:** *grins sheepishly* *clears throat* Uh, hello. I uploaded this a few days ago without really reading over it. We all have those moments where we finish our respective fics and we're so high on life and the flow of creativity that we exuberantly log onto our accounts and post the story without really proofreading for tactical errors or that fact that it MAKES NO SENSE. I hope this is less confusing. Anyway, this is inspired from Becoming Jane. It features **Incubus!Hook **because I've yet to read much of that. As always, leave as many thoughts, questions, comments as you see fit. Y'all come back now, y'hear?

P.S. Flashbacks are in italics.

* * *

Henry's busy in the kitchen—she hasn't been to the grocery store in weeks and everything is past the expiration date, so she doesn't know what he thinks he can manage—and she finally admits to herself how tired she is as she watches her son flit about, only days after returning from days that felt like decades and battles with Lost Boys and the entire _pestilence_ of Neverland. She's tired—so tired—but she hasn't slept. Hasn't really done much of anything yet, really, eluding both her wanderings as the Savior and her motherly duties. Her mind is elsewhere—remembering the past week or so, every harrowing minute, but that _one_ in particular, the one that makes her heart heavy and low in her chest whenever she thinks about it for too long—and yet her faraway eyes seem to escape everyone's notice.

(_She sees him standing there, away from camp, drinking from his flask, and she's so happy. Her son was saved from the sadism of Pan and his underlings, and despite Neal's confusing presence and the pulling of her heart, all she sees is Killian._)

She hears her parent's footsteps overhead, the mattress as it squeaks under their weight, their whispers as they bid each other goodnight with sleepy eyes and affectionate smiles. Her heart constricts a little in her chest, she knows she'll never have their shared promises of something beautiful and pure and perfect. She shifts, her tired eyes threatening to slip shut when Henry comes to her side, insists she eats a bowl of something that resembles oatmeal. Its gruel, she thinks, as she takes the bowl, offering Henry a conciliatory grin, wondering what else besides the fine points of sailor victuals he's been learning from Kil—

Oh, God, no, just. No, she thinks, heart clattering in her chest. She's not ready.

Henry watches the smile slip from her face, his gaze so penetrating, so wise for someone of his age—she suspects their recent exploits in Neverland have made him grow up faster than he deserved, something she isn't entirely convinced she's not responsible for—and so free of condemnation, she finds herself wanting to tell him every one of her secrets. The compulsion becomes so strong, she doesn't trust herself. He's still her son, she's still his mother, and she can't defer to him on this, she can't tell him. (Won't, more likely, just like she won't confide in anyone what she'd seen and felt that last night in Neverland, no matter how badly her hands shake.) In a bid for self-preservation, she keeps her mouth shut, letting Henry do most of the talking. He fills up the hours, speaking loudly of his firsthand knowledge of heroes and villains and how good always wins. When he falls asleep on the couch next to her to the flashing images and low hum of the movie they're watching—anything but Peter Pan, he'd joked, and she wishes she could've laughed as loudly as he had—she strokes his hair, listens to his light snores.

There's a soft rap at the door and seriously, it's like the _middle of the night_—except not really, it's hardly past eleven, but _common courtesy_—and she stands, careful not to wake Henry. She doesn't even think before opening the door (she thinks maybe she should have, anything could've waited until morning, once she was at work and continuing to live like nothing was wrong) and sees him, leaning up against the doorframe—he has the most beautiful face, it makes her weak, his beauty afflicts her—with Henry's book under one arm.

"Swan," he lilts, looking happy to see her.

(When she'd met him, his eyes had been stormy from withstanding centuries of grief and heartbreak. But when he was with her, even while on his pursuit for revenge for his first love, his eyes were self-negating, bright and hopeful, refuting all ever said about how people couldn't change. His eyes had been too cold, in that moment. He hadn't brightened when he'd seen her. She should've known, she should've been able to tell, but she'd wanted the moment so badly, she'd convinced herself it was him, never thinking for a moment it couldn't be.)

"I regret to inform you that your attempts at trying to keep us apart have failed, darling," he says, delivery equal parts humor and accusation. She'd wonder if she'd hurt him by staying away—of course she did, she knows she did, after all he's done for the ensured welfare of her family—if she wasn't so intent on assuring herself otherwise.

(_I fail to see the value in a life where we're not together, he says. I know you think the same, love, so come with me.)_

There's fingertip bruising on the curve of her hips, a mark just over her collarbone—she can feel the spot beneath her turtleneck, glad it's hidden from view so no one, especially _him_, could ever see it, not wanting to have it explain it, ever. She enters the hallway, closing the door behind her.

"Couldn't this have waited until tomorrow?" she reprimands, disapproving eyebrow lifted, arms folded over her chest. She nods at the book he's holding, and he gives her a smile that tells her everything she needs to know about pirates and their opinions towards propriety.

"I've regard for the hour, Swan, but your boy left his book upon my ship, and I'd be remiss if I didn't return to it the lad before he notices it missing," he attempts to explain, grin still firmly in place. It's been an entire week and Henry hasn't noticed the absence of his book, she thinks, or else he purposely left it behind so that—

Huh. Her kid is a matchmaker.

"And the real reason?" she asks, and it comes out softer than the peremptory way she'd wanted to say it as he sidles closer to her, all unrepentant swagger and swinging gait. (He's no reason to believe now isn't the time, because it's over, isn't it, Henry's home and he's safe and danger isn't imminent so everything can finally begin, can't it.)

"I wanted to see you." Despite all pretenses, he's very convincing, so sincere that she aches, her chin trembles a little. Blue, hopeful eyes watch her, diligent and conscientious in their perusal as they watch her intently, seeming to notice the commotion hidden away in an enclave of her heart that no one ever sees. Sometimes their shared understanding—the way they just _know_ each other, better than they know themselves—does more harm than good. She swallows, looks away, pushing away memories of pretty words and blue eyes that weren't real.

She assumes that he figures he's overstepped—but he's been making gradual advances past her walls since she'd met him, since the beanstalk, since he'd laid in that hospital bed grinning about his attachments and their uses and he's always been full of impenitent tenacity —when he nods at her, takes a step back. (It's better this way, she thinks, because she can't trust herself when he's that close, not anymore.)

"Are you well, darling?" he asks, looking more concerned than he had a right to be. They weren't in a relationship. He wasn't her boyfriend.

_(He's smiling—it's more of a smirk, but her mind is too hazy, too full of longing to see. There shan't ever be a day I won't love you, Emma, I'm _yours_—body and soul, I'm yours. Let's run away together—we'll take your lad, find a way off this accursed island, the three of us. Isn't that what you want?_)

She looks down at her hands, the floor, his boots, before looking up at him again, still unsure of what to say. She takes a breath, tucks her hair behind her ears. "Bad dream," she offers at last. (If only.)

"Nightcap might cure that for you," he grins, making a show of reaching for his flask, not pushing, never pushing. (She always makes it this way, because if she didn't, she'd be incapable of resisting him, and she's only going to make that mistake once.)

She laughs a little, because really the last thing she needs is his _rum_, however warm and comforting it proves. His eyes crinkle at the corners, he lifts half of his mouth in that old, familiar smirk at the sound of her chuckle. His warmth and caring, his negligence to anything besides her and those important to her, his reformed ways, his smile—they're enough to make her want to never leave his side.

"Are you quite certain, love? You know if you require anything, anyway I can be of service—"

And then the laughter fades. She catches herself, remembers, freezes.

"Hook, I'm fine," she snaps, forcing him away—he has to _stay away_, even though the meaner she is, the more despicable she feels. He stares hard at her. She slouches, averts her eyes. The only reason he keeps coming back is because he likes the challenge, she knows. It certainly isn't for the simultaneity of her continued disinterest and a series of battles with whatever Big Bad has come to Storybrooke. She hates herself for being a victim of circumstance. She hates that she was shaped—to a large extent—by external events (and people) that have made it so hard for her to _let people in_. Mostly she hates herself for still calling him Hook, not allowing the familiarity, when he deserves to be called by his first name. And more.

"Neverland just left a lasting impression, is all," she adds, softening at the flash of hurt she sees cross his face. It's the truth. Not all of it, but a minor part. She swallows again, tugs on the elastic of her sweatpants.

He nods, scratches behind his ear. She finds herself wishing he'd try to insert himself again, offer assistance he knows she doesn't need—she can take care of herself, but she appreciates his protective instincts, something she's never been given so often before. But she knows she's given him no reason to believe he should, because since long before Neverland, she's been unfairly ostracizing him from society, her family. Her. And maybe that's why she's so unhappy, because he isn't hers, she isn't his, and she has no business waking up in the middle of the night and wondering what it'd be like to be in his arms.

"I suppose I'll take my leave, then," he says, waiting for her to protest, to invite him in. When she doesn't, he hands her the book. She pretends not to see him shift, to see his eyes droop with disappointment.

"Thanks for dropping this off," she says, small smile given in gratitude.

He scratches behind his ear again—it's a nervous habit she knows he only employs around her, and she thinks its endearing and just really cute, seeing him without his pretension and pirate captain bravado—and smiles back, less freely than before.

"A pleasure as always, Swan," he bids, giving her a gallant bow and somehow managing to look every bit as appealing and seductive as he always has while doing it.

"Goodnight," she whispers to his retreating back, watching him leave. She holds back all-consuming sadness.

There's so much she wants to say, things she never got to say, things she dreams of saying, but now the moment is gone, it's gone.

(She would tell him anything, if only he asked, but he never does, and that's how she should've known it hadn't been him.)

(_He's whispering into her ear, making her shudder. What's stopping you, Emma? Don't you love me?_)

(She wonders what would've happened if she hadn't noticed that Killian—_it_, the fucking _incubus_, whatever—hadn't been wearing his rings on his hand, rings she knows he never takes off, that she hadn't felt the cool press of them against the skin of her neck.)

(She wonders how _it_ had known what was in her heart when she couldn't even admit it to herself.)

(_Her sword clatters to the ground. She stands for short moments, unable to think, breathe. Then she collapses to her knees, all the time watching as Killian's face becomes something unspeakably ugly, with sallow skin and jagged teeth, and she becomes irreparably broken as she watches life fade away_.)


End file.
